Savior
by HoneydukesFan
Summary: Harry Potter was only good at one thing, and that was surviving.
1. Prolouge

A/N: Harry is partially defined by his "saving people thing," which makes him an excellent hero. He also has plenty of courage, knows when to stand up for what he believes in, and tries to do the right thing. But what if he didn't have a "saving people thing"? What if he was a coward, doesn't particularly believe in anything, and isn't even sure what the 'right thing' is? This fanfic is the struggle of a hero who doesn't have any heroic qualities.

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter!

Reviews appreciated.

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Harry Potter was only good at one thing, and that was surviving.

In fact, that was what he was doing right now.

The situation was something like this:

It was a three-story bungalow in a deserted section of a Muggle suburban neighborhood. There were four Death Eaters on the ground floor blocking off the exit, and at least two more thundering up the stairs if the noise was anything to go by.

Harry was on the third floor and becoming increasingly nervous. He checked his inventory to see what he had: his wand, some gum, a piece of string, a knife, a galleon taped to his left ankle, a watch, and a time-turner. He had already used the time turner in an attempt to save himself from this situation (a rescue mission that failed horribly due to unforeseen complications) and his past self was running around somewhere, hopefully still alive.

He checked his watch. 5:07. If his memory was accurate, he should be cowering in a bush right about now.

Right. So. All he had to do was save himself and his past self and make a getaway.

Option one was that he could try and fight his way past the Death Eaters, but as good a fighter as he was, it was still six against one. They were curse-happy and unpredictable and he might lose something important like an arm in the process.

Option two was….

There was a bang from the third-story landing, and Harry stopped planning.

He blasted open a window and, hoping for the best, leapt out of it.

Just before he hit the ground, he waved his wand sharply. His descent slowed dramatically, and while there was still a painful-sounding _thump_ when he landed, he got to his feet relatively unharmed. _Could have been worse_, he thought.

He charged off across the backyard in the direction he thought his past-self was. He turned the corner of a neighboring house, decided to make a detour through an enclosed patio—and then skidded to a halt.

The patio was enclosed on three sides by a tall wooden fence, and the fourth side by a house. Mixed in among the patio furniture, looking like they were about to have some sort of macabre garden party, were five Death Eaters. _Worse_, thought Harry.

He gave a yell of surprise at the sight of them, which was drowned out by a collective cry of, "It's Potter!" Most of the spells they sent at him hit the shield he had thrown up, but one of them he barely managed to avoid by diving to the right.

"I don't suppose," huffed Harry, spinning and dodging curses as he went, "we could work out a deal?" He located the two entrances: one of them was blocked by Death Eaters and through the one he had just entered, he could see more Death Eaters running towards the patio. "Anybody," pant, "low on cash? I've got lots of—Aggh!"

A sickly green curse had missed him by inches. "That was the killing curse, you bastard!" _Ok_, thought Harry, _that was a no-go on bribery. But I'm not going to win in a fair fight, so…_

_Time to make it unfair_.

He had noticed a grill earlier. The Death Eaters didn't know what it was, probably because they scorned anything Muggle, and they were grouped around the two gas tanks that supplied the grill without a care in the world. _It would be messy, _considered Harry, _but sometimes you just have to what's necessary._

Giving what (he hoped was) a fearsome war-cry, he enjoyed the Death Eaters' look of surprise as he charged the ones just arriving at the patio. They faltered for a split second, and Harry used this time to cast a propulsion spell on himself. He launched himself over their heads, and, twisting in midair, sent the most powerful combustion curse he knew towards the gas tanks.

It would have been very cool, but the force of the explosion knocked him straight out of the air and into a nearby tree. Picking himself off the ground with a groan, Harry realized that the explosion had been much more powerful than he'd ever thought it would be. The gas tanks seemed to have fueled the power of the curse exponentially.

He stumbled back towards the wreckage of the patio, ears ringing, and surveyed the damage. The lucky Death Eaters were unconscious, and the unlucky Death Eaters seemed to be… missing things. Groans and muffled screams accosted him despite his recovering hearing. He smiled grimly. _Victorious again_. He walked around briskly, finishing off any of the Death Eaters that were still alive. _I think there might be some moral code against killing your enemies while they're unconscious_, mused Harry. _Oops._

He was almost done when something near the edge of the patio made his blood freeze. There was someone lying underneath one of the fences. They must have been on the opposite side of the fence when the fence was blown outward by the force of the explosion. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered Harry, but the feet sticking out from underneath the fence were wearing the same shoes he was wearing.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

He began stumbling over to the fence, speeding up until he was sprinting. He banished the fence with a wave of his wand, and was left looking at…. Himself.

There was a piece of wooden shrapnel sticking out of his past-self's chest that looked disturbingly fatal. Harry's stomach seemed to fall from a great height, and he found that he had trouble breathing; his mind went blank except for the repeated phrase, _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…_

"What are you doing here, you idiot?" hissed Harry at his past self. "You're not supposed to be anywhere near here at this time!"

"I… heard a… noise…" mumbled his past self. "Decided to… come check it out. Thought I might've—used—the… the time-turner." He gave a hacking laugh. "I was right."

Harry's mind whirled. He had changed the timeline by causing a disturbance that had brought his past self running over. And then he had accidentally blown himself up. _Oh, of all the ironies… All the things I've been through and it turns out the only thing I can't survive is myself._

His past self's eyes were closing. "Oh, no you don't buster," snapped Harry. He slapped his other self gently on the cheek. "Don't you dare… Don't you dare… Wake up!"

But it was too late. Harry could only sit, frozen, and his past self's breathing became slower and slower.

_How is this possible?_ he thought. _If my past self dies, then how can I exist? If he dies, then he never uses the time-turner, and I never go back in time. How… How…_

"Paradox," whispered Harry.

No sooner had he said this than the ground started shaking. A feeling not dissimilar to having one's insides tied into knots erupted throughout his body. He collapsed on the ground, and barely registered the fact that both he and his past self were glowing. _Great._

His last coherent thought was a memory of Hermione saying, "Bad things happen to wizards who mess with time." _Looks like she was right about that one._

Then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 1

When Harry woke up, he was in terrible pain, which was a good thing because it meant he wasn't dead yet.

He was lying on his back and the only thing he could see was the sky. He knew he should move because he might still be in danger, but he couldn't bring himself to. _Not dead_, he thought. _Not dead_. It had a nice ring to it.

He finally shifted his head a bit to the right and saw a house. Then he shifted his head a bit to the left and saw a fence. When he finally gathered enough energy to pull himself to his feet, he saw that he was surrounded by group of dumbfounded looking Muggles, and that one of them was standing behind a grill that was in danger of catching fire.

He looked at them, and the Muggles looked back, and there was complete silence. Then Harry cleared his throat and said, "Your hamburgers are on fire."

And then he walked quickly away before they could recover from their shock. He really didn't need one of them to call the police and report that a strange man had suddenly materialized in their yard.

Once he was about two or three blocks away, he leaned against a tree to assess the situation. The yard he had just left, the patio he had just left with the grill—that was the same patio he had destroyed not ten minutes ago. It was definitely the same little enclosed patio, except that now it was in perfect repair, there were no Death Eaters, and Muggles were having a cook-out in it.

He closed his eyes and struggled to remember. He had been hiding out in a deserted Muggle neighborhood for a few days (deserted because of a 'gas leak'; actually, it had only taken a few well-placed phone calls and confundus charms to evacuate a small section of the neighborhood) and then the Death Eaters had found him. They had placed anti-apparition wards around the whole neighborhood and then spread out across the area to search for him. It had been like a perverse game of hide-and-go seek. Many brave men liked to face their problems head on, but Harry was not one of these—neither a brave man nor someone who liked to face their problems.

No, instead he had hid in various clumps of dense shrubbery, looking for a gap in the Death Eater patrols for a chance to make his daring escape, and then he had been found. And then he had tried to use his time-turner as a way out of the situation. Hadn't _that_ worked out well.

He remembered now, frighteningly clearly, how he had died. Well, how his past self had died. When that happened there had been pain, lots of it, and then he and his past self had kind of… merged. They had turned back into one person and Harry was sent spinning into a great void of nothing. And then had been…. blackness.

So that brought him back to the current problem: what the hell had happened? The patio looked like it had never been touched, and there was no sign of Death Eaters anywhere.

He cast his mind about for different theories, and two explanations in particular jumped out at him. Either he was in a different time or a different place. It seemed absurd to him that either one of these could be true, and yet…. Magic was extremely absurd. And there was this feeling, deep inside his bones, of an inherent wrongness. The world looked the same, felt the same, heck, even smelled the same, but for some reason it felt different. Maybe it was just his near-death experience speaking.

The time theory could be easily checked. All he needed to find was a newspaper. And as for the 'different place' theory, Harry guessed he just had to poke around and see if anything was different. He remembered Hermione once talking about alternate universes and wondered if this was one of them. But then that got him thinking about Hermione, so he stopped. He had failed her like he had failed all of his friends, in the end, and feeling guilty about his past would not make it any better.

He considered his options. He still had his usual assortment of supplies (string, knife, watch, gum, wand, and galleon) although the time-turner had turned black and was now smoking slightly. He doubted it would ever work again, and even if it did, he wouldn't want to use it. He was rather… off time-turners at the moment.

He removed the galleon from his left ankle and twirled it between his fingers. _If this really was an alternate dimension…_ He smiled. The possibilities were endless.

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The first thing he did was get a newspaper. It was a Muggle one, but that didn't matter. The date checked out and his watch affirmed that it was 5:48, not an unlikely time. It didn't suggest time travel of any sort.

The evidence was leaning towards the alternate dimension theory, but he needed to be sure. And if he was in an alternate dimension, he needed to know how it was different. He needed to find a bookstore, and preferably a wizarding one. He considered Flourish and Blott's in Diagon Alley, but then thought that if Harry Potter was still number one on Voldemort's hit list in this dimension, strolling into Diagon Alley was probably not the best idea.

So. A little known wizarding bookshop. There was one on the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole, if he remembered correctly, and it probably wasn't a hot spot of Death Eater activity.

He pictured the bookstore in his mind, turned sharply on one foot, and with a pop, was gone.

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The elderly wizard who owned the store looked at him extremely strangely when he first entered the shop, and for a split second Harry thought, with a sinking heart, that it was the typical "Oh my gosh, it's Harry Potter!" reaction. Then Harry caught his reflection in one of the windows of the store, and realized it was probably because it looked like a bomb had gone off near him. In a way, that was true.

His Muggle attire was also probably unusual, and it didn't help that his T-shirt was burned away slightly in the back and full of holes and his jeans were ripped in multiple places. He was covered in scrapes and dirt, and his hair looked like it had been electrocuted. When Harry muttered a vague "Hello," to the wizard as he entered the shop, the wizard glanced briefly at the scar on his forehead but made no comment or appeared to recognize it at all.

"Looking for anything in particular, lad?" wheezed the old wizard. "Books on personal grooming, perhaps?" he said, giving a couple coarse chuckles at his own joke.

Harry tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. "Not this time. I was looking for history books. Especially recent historical events, if you have any books like that….?"

"Ah, right this way." He pointed to a dusty pile under the window. "This probably has what you're looking for."

As the old wizard returned back behind the counter, Harry picked up two near the top of the pile. There was one called _Recent Political Developments_ and another called _Dark Arts in the Modern Era_.

Scanning _Dark Arts in the Modern Era_, Harry found multiple chapters devoted to Voldemort. _Ah, so old snake face was alive and kicking, then. It was too much to hope for that he wouldn't exist in this world_.

His heart nearly stopped beating when he saw the word 'Potter' in one of the last chapters of the book, a chapter concerning Voldemort. Hands shaking, he leaned closer to read what it had to say.

"_One of the most mysterious events surrounding the so-called Dark Lord was his temporary demise. On October 31,1981, Lord Voldemort attacked the Potter residence. James and Lily Potter were away at the time, at, if rumors are to be believed, an Order of the Phoenix meeting (the Order is a secret Light organization whose existence has not been proven), and their son Harry was alone in the house with his babysitter Peter Pettigrew. What happened next is not known, but both Voldemort and Harry were killed in what appears to be an explosion. Peter Pettigrew's body was discovered as well, but he appeared to be the victim of the killing curse. Most contemporary historians theorize that Mr. Pettigrew was killed by Voldemort and then Voldemort attempted to kill the infant Harry Potter. Why an explosion occurred or who caused it is a mystery, but most of the wizarding population have adopted the popular idea that it was the baby Potter who finally vanquished the Dark Lord._

_Alas, young Mr. Potter did not finish Voldemort permanently, as four years ago the Dark Lord rose again and resumed his terror campaign on the wizarding population._

_However, many questions have been raised by this incident. How was the baby Potter able to defeat the most powerful wizard of a generation? Why did Voldemort target the baby Potter in the first place? Why did he kill Pettigrew, who was later proven to be working for the Dark Lord after it was revealed that he was the Potters' secret keeper? And…"_

Harry looked up. He was… relieved. More than that, he was ecstatic. Sure, Voldemort was still alive, but as far as he knew, Harry was dead. Doors were suddenly opening up all around him. It was a chance at a new life! Nobody had any expectations from him. He could be anyone he wanted. There was no fate, no destiny of certain doom, no thrice-damned prophecy. Nobody expected him to be a hero, and for once in his life, he was nobody's savior.

Nobody's savior. A huge grin split his face.

He practically bounced over to the register and plopped the book down on the counter. "I'll take this one, thanks."

The wizard looked up in surprise at his sudden change in demeanor, but rang up the book dutifully. "Six sickles, please."

Harry produced his galleon and cheerfully pocketed the eleven sickle change he received in return.

He sauntered out of the store and called out, "Have a wonderful day, mister!"

Throughout the entire portion of his life that he had spent running and hiding from the oppressive fear of Voldemort, Harry had had a secret dream. It involved a house in a relatively deserted area with a scenic view, lots of beer, and plenty of peace and quiet.

For the first time ever, this dream was possible, and Harry intended to see it through.

Voldemort was somebody else's problem now.

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Just before Harry apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, he repaired his clothes and attempted to scourgify most of the dirt off of himself. He used a basic healing spell on most of his scrapes, which made them look a couple of days old instead of brand new, and then ran his fingers through his hair.

There. Now he looked like less of a murderous lunatic.

He needed a drink, but before he could get a drink, he needed money. And money was simple enough to get.

When he had been living with the Dursleys, he had been constantly jealous of all the things Dudley had gotten. More seriously, he often didn't get enough to eat, and resorted to what he felt like was the most natural thing.

He became extremely good at stealing. Bumping up against people in the streets and slipping his hand into their pockets when they weren't paying attention became almost second-nature to him, and he perfected the 'helpless little kid' routine. Cry a bit and ask for some money to put into the public phone booth, and strangers rarely say no.

He soon found himself in the Leaky Cauldron, and made his way quickly to Diagon Alley. He reveled in the anonymity of it. Nobody recognized him or questioned him or so much as looked his way.

Stealing wasn't exactly the epitome of moral righteousness, but sometimes, Harry thought, you have to do what's necessary. It only took a couple of minutes in bustling Diagon Alley before he had lifted several fat money pouches, and decided on one last target.

A heavily bearded, distracted man was winding his way down Diagon Alley, and Harry started walking casually over to him. Without even rustling the man's robe, Harry deftly extracted the contents of the man's pocket. There was a money pouch—expected, and much appreciated—but also a strange blue-and-green orb.

Harry was eyeing the orb curiously when the bearded man stopped halfway down the street, a little ways from Harry. The man suddenly burst into motion, whipping out his wand and sending a ball of light into the air with a huge bang. "For Voldemort!" he screamed, and plunged a hand into his pocket to pull something out. Which he discovered wasn't there.

The man spun wildly around, looking up and down the street, until his eyes landed on Harry and the orb in his hand.

_Shit_, thought Harry.

The street full of shopping witches and wizards had gone deathly silent at the volley of light and the bearded man's proclamation. They had all stopped what they were doing to stare wide-eyed at the man like a bunch of frightened rabbits.

Then, almost as one, when the man reached into his pocket and then paused, the crowd of people began screaming and made a mad dash towards the exits of the alley. Harry thought they had the right idea with this running business, and was more than happy to be swept along with the crowd.

The man (probable Death Eater) had other ideas, however, and began sprinting towards Harry with hatred in his eyes. The man had long legs and was an incredibly fast runner, and was gaining on Harry with every step. The multitude of curses that were skimming over his head were also becoming more accurate with every passing moment. Making a split-second decision, Harry feinted right but instead half-turned to grab a long, oaken walking stick from a store's outdoor display. Then, before the bearded man could react, Harry whipped around and cracked the stick over the man's head, sending him reeling backwards.

The man swayed but began to lift his wand again, pointing it at Harry.

"Oh, no you don't," said Harry. He quickly disarmed the disoriented man and stunned him for good measure. "I've put up with this shit for way too long to be brought down by a lone Death Eater who forgot how to shave."

As the Death Eater dropped to the ground, Harry took a deep breath and collected himself. _Not dead yet. And now I have some new goodies_, he thought, patting the pocket where the money pouches and orb was.

He looked around, and saw that there was one man who had stopped running and was looking at him like… like…

"Oh, no," said Harry.

"What?" said the man.

"You have that expression on your face," replied Harry.

The man looked confused. "What expression?"

"The one people make when they're grateful about something."

The man looked astounded. "Well, of course I'm grateful! You took down that Death Eater. You saved us! You're our sav- "

"Ahh!" said Harry. "Stop that! Stop it right now!"

A woman had joined the man and asked him, "Is this the man that stunned the Death Eater?"

The man was about to reply, but Harry interrupted him. "NO. I was running away with everyone else!"

The man was looking more and more confused. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, and then turned to the woman. "He— " he began, but never got to finish, because then Harry punched him in the face.

Harry _really_ didn't need to be anyone's hero, not now, not ever. He was looking forward to nice, new, peaceful life of fading into the background, and he didn't want some misguided story getting out of how he was an anti-Voldemort vigilante.

The woman let out a shriek of surprise and the man dropped like a stone. "Have a nice day!" called Harry over his shoulder, and resumed his previous sprint up the alley. It was time to get that drink.

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A/N Reviews much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 2

After the Diagon Alley incident, Harry found a nice pub and inn in a relatively small wizarding town. He rented rooms with his, ah, borrowed money, and finally took a shower. He had bought a few essentials from the local store—toothbrush, hairbrush, change of clothes, to name some—and after he had changed into fresh clothes, thought about the fact that dying was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

_Is there any part of me that misses my old world?_ he wondered. _Any part of me that feels bad for leaving my former fellow wizards to their (no doubt) horrible fate?_

He pondered this for a few minutes, and decided the answer was emphatically _No_.

Most of his friends, especially the ones he had been closest to, were dead anyway, and every passing day had made the war more unbearable. Every week that went by seemed to diminish the chance that Voldemort would ever be defeated, not that Harry had been doing much to stop him near the end.

It was true that when Harry had first heard about Voldemort, the man who had murdered his parents, he had promised himself he would do anything in his power to fight him. It was true that he had sworn loyalty to the Light, and to his friends, and to what he believed in. But it had taken one near death experience, one harsh slap in the face by reality, to discover that most of his loyalties revolved around himself. It had taken only one look at death up close to realize how much he liked being alive.

And how much he wanted to keep it that way.

He lay down on the bed and thought about his past for a few minutes. He tried not to do this. Contrary to popular belief, he did actually have a conscience, although admittedly it had seen better days. It was something he had gotten steadily better at ignoring throughout his life, but when he thought about his past, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

Dumbledore should have known he was trouble from the first incident, the first indicator that his hero did not possess a heart of gold. This incident occurred during Harry's first trip into the wizarding world with Hagrid.

Hagrid had taken Harry to Gringotts, and the first thing they did was stop by a mysterious vault and pick up an even more mysterious package. Harry had watched Hagrid slip the package into one enormous pocket, and, well, as a young boy prone to thieving, what Harry did next was hardly surprising.

He stole it partly out of curiosity and partly because he knew it must be quite valuable, to be locked up in such a secret way. Imagine his disappointment when he unwrapped the parcel at the Dursley's later that day to reveal… a rock. A shiny rock, to be sure, an unusually red rock, yes, but most definitely a stone.

He knew it must still be valuable, that it must possess some magical quality that he couldn't access, but he also knew that it was useless to him. It was, in the end, not worth the effort of stealing.

A couple of days later, Dumbledore himself appeared at Number Four, Privet Drive. He smiled and twinkled the Dursleys into submission, and then asked Harry if he could have a little chat with him in the dining room.

"Harry, my dear," said Dumbledore, twinkling ferociously, "did you see that package that Hagrid picked up the other day?"

Harry nodded uncertainly, and tried not to look too guilty. He was good at lying, but not as good as he was at stealing.

"Hagrid appears to have misplaced it. Do you know where it might be?"

Harry shook his head.

Dumbledore sighed gravely and said gently, "I can tell when people are lying, Harry. I think you know where the package is. Can you tell me?"

Harry looked at Dumbledore, at this seemingly fragile old man, and then he looked at his eyes. They were piercing and knowing and they looked straight into his soul. Harry did not doubt for a moment that lying to Dumbledore was useless.

He shifted his feet. "I… sold it to Piers Polkiss. For two Mars bars and a Swiss army knife."

Dumbledore stared at him. "Sold it… for two candy bars?"

"Yes, sir. And a Swiss army knife."

Dumbledore was speechless. "I… that is to say… That stone was a very powerful object. _Very_ powerful. Many men would give anything to have it… Literally anything… I don't quite… Two Mars bars you say?"

Harry nodded solemnly. "I figured it must be powerful. But, well, I couldn't do anything with it—I'm not even a proper wizard yet! And I doubt they have instruction manuals for this sort of thing. Also, I knew important people would probably be looking for it, so I couldn't keep it. I can't do anything with a shiny rock, but I _can_ do something with two Mars bars and a Swiss army knife."

"How very… practical of you," said Dumbledore uncertainly. "I, uh… Do you know where Mr. Polkiss lives?"

Harry did not realize how serious of a crime it was at the time and how much trouble he could have gotten into. Later, he realized that Dumbledore must have shielded him somewhat from the repercussions of his actions, no doubt still believing that Harry was merely a misguided hero in his youth.

And that was the first of many Harry Potter related incidents. Dumbledore had warned Harry that stealing would not be tolerated at Hogwarts, and also had a quick chat with Harry's aunt and uncle. Suddenly, the Dursleys decided it would be a good idea for Harry to take Dudley's second bedroom.

Harry never saw the strange stone again, and all Dumbledore said was, "I'm taking it to a safe place."

All Harry knew was that the 'safe place' wasn't Hogwarts or Gringotts, and that was all he ever found out. Frankly, he didn't particularly care.

Harry wasn't especially ashamed of this incident. No, it was later on when his actions, or rather inaction, caused the deaths of so many of his friends… How their bodies lay about him, and all he could think was, _Not dead yet_… _Not dead yet_… And the incident he was most ashamed of, when he made a deal to ensure his survival… A terrible promise made just so he was less likely to die…

He shivered and got up. Now was not the time for gloomy thoughts.

_I have a whole new life ahead of me!_ he thought. He looked in the mirror and tried a smile, but it looked forced. Then he tried to brush his hair, but that was equally as futile.

Accepting defeat, he grabbed his money and his wand and headed downstairs to the pub. A drink might help.

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Harry was good at lying, he was good at stealing, and he was good at fighting, but these all fell under the umbrella of surviving, so that was how he summed his skill set up. If he had business cards, that was what would be on them: Harry Potter, Survivor.

It wouldn't say 'Courageous Survivor' or 'Noble Survivor' or 'Sensitive Survivor,' because these are all oxymorons. No, it would simply say 'Survivor,' with all the dreadful self-loathing and clawing at life that it implied.

This is what Harry was stewing over as he sat at the bar. He sat sipping firewiskey, and eventually his bad mood faded, and all he could remember was that isolated house that was out there waiting for him somewhere. The more firewiskey he drank, the harder it was to remember his past.

"I tell you," he informed the bartender, "dying was the best thing that ever happened to me! Not that I would ever want to repeat the experience," he added quickly.

The bartender nodded sagely and continued wiping glasses, not really paying attention.

Harry went on to tell the man in a slurred whisper, "Someone told me once that death was the only way to escape my fate. Boy were they right!" He laughed to himself like he had said something hilarious.

His good mood improved even further when he saw a group of witches and wizards playing cards in the corner. _Here is an opportunity to have some fun _and_ make some money,_ thought Harry.

He walked (stumbled) over to them and said, "Mind if I cut in, ladies and gents?"

A stooped wizard with a large nose grunted in affirmation, but then added, "We're playin for money, tho'. That gonna be a problem?"

Harry gave a Cheshire grin. "Nope, can't say that it will."

Later, his pockets weighed down heavily with the galleons of his opponents, Harry was sitting next to a pretty witch whom he had been playing cards with earlier. She had long, dark hair, and the prettiest blue eyes, or at least he thought she did—everything was swaying a bit peculiarly at the moment.

"No hard feelings, then?" inquired Harry, referring to the (questionably obtained) money in his pockets.

The witch smiled. "None at all. It's only a game, after all."

Harry chuckled. "That's the spirit."

The witch looked at him closely. "What did you say your name was again?"

Harry struggled to remember the name he had decided on earlier. "Ethan… Meadowes." He smiled winningly. "What's yours?"

"Oh, no," she said. "You have to buy me a drink first."

"Of course! How rude of me." He extracted some money that he had, incidentally, stolen, er, won from her just a few minutes ago, and gestured for the bartender.

He was pretty sure she said her name right after she got her drink, but things got a bit hazy after that. All he could remember was that she asked about his back story, and he had launched into a slightly altered version of his childhood. "I was born the third of four princes, but alas, for none were as clever or as ambitious as me… I quickly took the crown for myself and became ruler of… of…Westphalia." He nodded in affirmation, but it was slightly ruined by a hiccup.

The witch raised an eyebrow. "Westphalia?"

"Yes… It's a little slip of a country near France—no, Germany…. But that's not important. What I _really_ must tell you about is my pet elephant…"

And so he went on. It must be said that Harry, while generally an excellent liar, was decidedly bad at it while drunk.

The rest of the night was a blur to him, and he woke up the next day in his bed at the inn, cursing the harsh light of day and suffering from a terrible headache.

His headache got even worse when he discovered that someone had stolen most of the money he had 'won' last night at cards.

Cursing his luck, Harry decided he needed to strategize. He needed some more money, and he also needed documentation of some sort if he was going to continue living in this world. Ethan Meadowes wouldn't hold up against close scrutiny.

To get money, he could sell the orb. It was most likely a powerful weapon of some kind, judging by the fact that a Death Eater had tried to use it in Diagon Alley, and people were always willing to buy powerful weapons. So… A place where he could sell a mysterious weapon with no questions asked, and a place where he could get forged documents. There was only one place that was reliably disreputable enough to offer both these things, and that was Knockturn Alley.

He sighed. It looked like he was going back to Diagon Alley sooner than he had planned.

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Before entering Diagon Alley, Harry changed his appearance a bit. He grew out his hair, tying it back, and perched some fake glasses on his nose (he had fixed his eyesight years ago magically). He also changed his eye color and pulled some long wizard robes over his usual Muggle attire.

This was just a precaution to make sure nobody remembered him from yesterday. He really didn't need any more attention than was necessary.

Then he began a walking down Diagon Alley at a brisk pace, only slowing down when some supplies in the apothecary window caught his eye_. Hmm_, thought Harry. _Basic first aid supplies… I always seem to need some of those… I'm sure a quick stop wouldn't hurt, and I have a little money left over from yesterday that I could use._

However, before he could turn into the shop, he heard something that almost made him walk into a barrel of frogspawn.

"Auror Potter! Yes, I was here yesterday. Are you here about that Death Eater they captured?"

Harry went completely still for a second, and then suddenly ran into the apothecary at full-tilt. Nodding at the store owner and trying not to seem too inconspicuous, Harry pretended to admire the front display while actually looking through the window out into the street.

The man he had punched in the face yesterday was there, and he was talking to another man whose back was to Harry. The man had unruly black hair, speckled here and there with hints of grey, and Harry thought he could see the ends of glasses poking out from behind his ears.

It was his father.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! They're very encouraging

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Harry had often wished, when he was younger, that his parents were somehow miraculously still alive and that they would come and rescue him from the Dursleys. He had spent many hours picturing exactly what his new life would be like with his parents in it.

It is no exaggeration to say that his dearest wish for many years had been that his parents were still alive.

But that was when he had been younger.

Instead of jumping for joy at the sight of his dad, or running out to introduce himself as James Potter's long lost son, Harry did just the opposite. He swore colorfully, and, with the accompaniment of many strange glances, hid under a table covered in pickled newt's legs.

The existence of James Potter caused a lot of problems for him. The biggest of these problems was that they looked almost exactly alike, sans the eyes, and Harry had foolishly forgotten to disguise himself yesterday. He had been so caught up in the euphoria of having a fresh start at life that he had forgotten the ramifications of the fact that his parents were still alive. Now there were probably multiple reports of a James Potter look-a-like running around Diagon Alley.

Another problem that Harry had not thought about in depth yet was the invisibility cloak. He had had vague intentions of tracking it down in this world because it had been so useful to him in his last world. He had left his old invisibility cloak and Marauder's Map buried in the ground in a safe place until he could go back and retrieve them, and now that he was in an alternate dimension, well, it was safe to say they were gone forever. James Potter no doubt owned the invisibility cloak in this dimension, and Harry thought it was too risky to try and get close enough to the Potter family to steal it.

The thing he must avoid at all costs was getting anywhere close to James Potter. Anyone who saw them stand side by side would start asking questions, and that wasn't what Harry needed.

Sure, Harry was currently 'disguised,' but they were simple charms. No hardened Auror would be fooled by them for more than a few minutes. He could come up with a more permanent disguise later. For now... He was staying underneath the newt legs.

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"It's a promotional thing," Harry explained for the fourth time. He pointed to a green sign and attempted his best 'salesmen voice.' "Look, newt's legs are half off if you get them with curried goat spleen!"

An elderly witch looked at him suspiciously, but then moved off down the aisle to look at something else.

He sighed and checked his watch. Enough time had probably passed that it was safe for him to continue on to Knockturn Alley.

Extricating himself from underneath the table, Harry walked out of the apothecary and looked up and down the street in both directions. It was packed with scurrying shoppers, but his father and the man he had punched yesterday were nowhere to be seen.

He continued at what he thought was a casual pace down the street, although he was so on edge he almost cursed the man handing out free samples of Florean Fortescue's ice cream into next Sunday.

It was almost a relief when he reached the cool shadows of Knockturn Alley. He smiled charmingly at a one-eyed witch with rotten teeth and positively beamed at a shifty looking man with what looked like dried blood on his shirt. These were people who understood about keeping their noses in their own business. These were people who could be trusted not to be trustworthy, and in this way they were predictable. Fortunately or unfortunately, Harry understood them.

Like a connoisseur with extremely discriminating taste, Harry walked down the alley until he found a store that was the perfect amount of decrepit and dubious. The front was covered in peeling paint and there was something that may or may not have been human teeth decorating the edges of a stained glass window. Through the window it looked dank and moldy, but Harry saw several items that might have been legitimately powerful.

He ascended the steps confidently and entered the store. "Hello," he said.

A fat, balding man behind the counter didn't even bother with formalities, and instead grunted, "Buying or selling?"

Harry gave a nostalgic sigh at the rudeness of the question. "Selling, actually."

The man grunted again. "Eh? What'a ya got, then?"

"I happened across a rather mysterious orb the other day, and I was wondering if you might be interested. My sources tell me it's quite powerful."

"A powerful orb, huh? Let's hav'a look."

Harry took the orb out of his pocket and held it up so the shopkeeper could see. The man's face went slack with surprise, and a grimy monocle that had been screwed into his face looked practically in danger of falling out.

"Where'd… Where'd ya get that?" he asked.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "So it's valuable, then?" _Valuable, or distinctive_, he thought. _Or both_.

"Yeah… I guess ya could say…" Then the man paused. "Well, not too val'uble, mind. Don't expect a lotta galleons for this ol' thing."

Harry smiled. "Of course not."

The man swallowed nervously. "It's… powerful is all. Maybe too much to be worth it, d'ya see?" He was looking at Harry closely. "You from outta town?"

Harry's eyes narrowed again. "I didn't say where I was from. Does it matter?"

"'Course not, 'course not," he said hastily. He laughed nervously. "Prob'ly inherit it from an aunt, didn't ya?"

"Something like that."

"I'll tell ya what. Make ya a deal. Two hun'red galleons for th' thing." He looked at Harry sternly. "Tha's my absolute final offer."

Harry was honestly blown away. He had expected fifty galleons, at most. He didn't let his surprise show on his face, however, and instead sighed and said, "Well, I suppose that'll do."

The shopkeeper took the orb from Harry carefully, almost reverently, and Harry wondered at his strange behavior. There was clearly something he was missing.

_But_, Harry thought as he was handed a jingling pouch full of two hundred galleons, _he was happy to stay out of the loop if this is what he got in return_.

Harry left the store shortly after he collected his money, stopping only to admire a floral arrangement near one window that looked like it was made mostly of small, dead, furry mammals.

Unbeknownst to Harry, the shopkeeper hurried to the fireplace soon after he had left and threw a dash of green powder into the grate. A roar of flames came up, and an irritated man's face appeared in the middle of them.

"What'd'ya want, Hector?"

"Ya won't believe what I jus' bought. An elemental sphere! An' I don't even think tha lad knew what he was selling."

The man in the fireplace looked at him sharply. "Those are personally made by the Dark Lord. There are only a few in circulation at any even time, and they're closely regulated. Was the seller a Death Eater?"

"Never seen 'im before in me life!" said Hector gleefully.

"What did he look like?" said the other man intently.

"Well, I dunno," said Hector. "How much is it worth to ya…?"

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Harry was happy. He often found that his happiness was closely correlated the amount of money in his pockets, and his pockets were exceptionally full at this precise moment.

Before leaving the small, dank shop where he had sold the orb, he cast a silencing charm on his pockets. There was no faster way to get killed than having pockets that jingled with every step while walking down Knockturn Alley.

He knew precisely where he was going next, if her store still existed in this world. Madame Withly's was the absolute last word on fraudulent papers.

He saw to his delight that her store was in the same place in this world as it was in his. It was a great hulking shop near the end of the row, cleaner than most but making up for this fact by being entirely made out of intimidating black marble. It looked like a mausoleum, and Harry figured that the frigid-looking marble was about as warm as Madame Withly's personality.

He entered the shop and found himself in a white-and-gold foyer that was illuminated by chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Craning his neck upwards, he saw that even Madame Withly couldn't resist the decorative inclinations of Knockturn Alley, as shown by the skull attached to the middle of the chandelier.

He had only been standing a few minutes when a witch entered the foyer from a back doorway. She looked about fifty or sixty, but her eyes were alert, and her cruel smile indicated that she probably had multiple knives on her at any given time.

"Hello, how are you today?" she asked.

"Fine, thank you. I seem to have… lost my official identification papers. I don't suppose you have any that would suit me?"

"I might just, I might just," she mused. "What did you say your name was?"

"Ethan Meadowes," he replied.

She said in a business-like tone, "Alright Mr. Meadowes, come to my office with me and we can straighten out the details. I'll need certain information like your birth date, height, weight, and so on and so forth to make your new documents. And if you happen to forget certain pieces of information, feel free to… get creative."

"Gladly," Harry replied.

They entered her office, and she continued, "It's usually fifty galleons for birth certificates and ten for apparition licenses. A document certifying that you graduated from a magical institution can cost anywhere from ten to thirty galleons. And some of the more, ah, custom documents can be quite pricey."

Harry considered for a second, and then said, "Alright. For now, I want a birth certificate, apparition license, and a document saying that I got a magical education. I don't care where—wherever's cheapest." He slid about one hundred and fifty galleons onto her desk. "And make them the best papers you've made in a while."

Her eyes widened at the amount of money. "This is more than enough money, Mr., ah, Meadowes."

"Yes, I know. I was also hoping you could leave a trail of smaller documents… Fairly insignificant ones that happen to suddenly appear in Ministry files. For example, the name Ethan Meadowes could appear on a list of children who went to St. Mungo's in 1985. Just normal documents that would appear throughout one's life."

She nodded slowly. "I think that is… doable." She swept the pile of galleons into a drawer in her desk. "Let's get started, shall we?"

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A couple of hours later Harry had several excellently-forged papers of identification and still had fifty galleons left over. He was feeling rather cheerful, cheerful enough, in fact, to risk Flourish and Blott's. He still didn't know much about this world, and all the information he could get would be useful.

He was perusing the aisle on Defense Against the Dark Arts, just in case he didn't know any of the jinxes discussed in these books (doubtful), when he saw a tall witch about his age at the other end of the aisle. Something about her was familiar…

She was extremely beautiful, with long, dark hair pulled back from her face and the most fantastic pair of dark blue eyes. She was also scowling at a book, which made her look quite terrifying, and there was a small scar running from the top of one cheekbone to her ear.

He squinted at her and tried to place her. He tilted his head a bit to the right, and suddenly he remembered. She was the witch he had been talking to last night at the inn! Talk about a small world.

Just as he recognized her, she turned around and caught him looking at her. He swiveled around hurriedly and pretended to be engrossed in _A History of the Jellylegs Curse_.

He could feel her staring at him intently, and no doubt something about him was familiar as well. Hopefully she wouldn't see through his hasty disguise, as that would lead to awkward questions, mostly about why he was disguised and happened to be in the same bookshop as her.

She walked past him to the register, and he watched as she pulled out her money pouch to pay for her books. Or rather, she took out _his_ money pouch to pay for her books. She was the one who had stolen his money last night!

He must have let out a huff of indignation, because she whirled around and said, "I knew it!"

"Knew what?" said Harry.

"You're that man from the inn last night! Ethan Meadowes!"

He considered denying it, but then decided he was too angry. "And you're the girl who stole my money!"

She gave a derisive laugh. "_Nobody_ is that lucky at cards. I caught on to your little trick soon enough. You say I stole your money, but all I did was steal my money _back_."

Harry glared at her and mumbled, "I stole that money fair and square. It took me months to work out that charm that only affected aces."

She was smirking, and she looked like someone who had discovered an unexpected treat. "Now the real question is why you're wearing these cheap glamours. Did you think they'd fool me? I'm insulted."

"They're not for _you_," muttered Harry. "And—hey!" With a wave of her wand, she had dispelled his disguise. "What're you doing?"

(Let it be said that the man behind the register was looking more and more confused as the conversation continued.)

"No, that's my line. What are you doing wearing a disguise? Only criminals need them. Or perhaps you're something worse…. Got a penchant for following Dark Lords, do we?"

"What?! No!"

Luckily Harry was saved by the unexpected arrival of Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Ada," said Shacklebolt, striding into the shop, "We have to go. The Auror department has sent out an alert near Kent."

"I was just investigating this suspicious looking individual," sniffed Ada. She gestured towards Harry and Kingsley noticed him for the first time.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I am _not_ a Death Eater. See?" He rolled up his left sleeve. "I take it you're an Auror, then?"

"Well, an Auror-in-training," she said, clearly proud. "This is Shacklebolt, is my mentor. And Shacklebolt, this is Ethan Meadowes. He told me the longest yarn last night about being a prince of Westphalia."

"I—well, yes… but…" started Harry, but Kingsley cut in, clearly pressed for time.

"Nice to meet you, Meadowes," he said in his deep voice, and then steered Ada towards the door. However, near the exit he glanced back at Harry and said, "You know, you look like the spitting image of… Well, never mind." He shook his head.

Then, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, "Cripes! We've got to go. Hurry up Ada, Auror Potter'll have my head…."

Harry watched them leave with a sinking heart. Now two Aurors knew what he looked like and his name, and it sounded like at least one of them knew his father.

He needed to get out of London as soon as possible and find that nice, deserted area where he could buy a house. Maybe in France somewhere? Or maybe Italy. It didn't matter, as long as it was far away from Aurors, and Death Eaters, and Voldemort, and Dumbledore, and away from everyone who wanted to kill him or who had expectations of him.

He wanted a house and enough Unplottable charms to obscure the whole of Russia, if necessary, but to do that he needed money. And money was simple enough to get.


	5. Chapter 4

Well, 'simple enough' might have been a slight exaggeration. Accumulating enough money to buy a house and, more importantly, privacy was going to take more than picking pockets in Diagon Alley.

Before Harry even started planning on how to lay his hands on enormous piles of money, however, he changed where he was staying. He changed his appearance, too, and for a time decided to change his name. Harry thought this was probably paranoid of him, but he wanted interest in 'Ethan Meadowes' to die completely down. Two Aurors knowing his name and appearance was two Aurors too many.

Also, his more complete disguise would shield him from any connections that might be made to James Potter. He was now blonde, with regular length hair again, and his skin was paler with some freckles dusting his face. His nose was shorter and his chin was longer and his eyes were brown. He used stronger charms this time, spells that were much more complex and took longer to cast, and drank a potion each day that masked any indication he was using glamours at all. An Auror could cast a Revealing charm on him and they would never detect that his appearance was anything but authentic. He had considered Polyjuice potion, but it was expensive and it also meant that he was taking someone else's appearance. Having two people who looked exactly the same running around was bound to start questions.

The only thing he couldn't change was his scar. It stayed there stubbornly no matter how many glamours he tried to put over it. The only thing that worked was Muggle makeup, which he had bought (feeling slightly embarrassed) from a Muggle drugstore earlier.

He was now living near a different wizarding community with the temporary name Johnathon Cellwick. The town was small and out of the way, but it attracted enough magical tourists that Harry didn't stick out by living there. Currently, he was renting a small apartment from a witch named Bethany with the remains of his fifty galleons.

It was after a few days had passed and Harry had become more comfortable with his new routine that he began seriously thinking about where to get money. The Potter vault was off-limits, for obvious reasons, and getting a real job posed problems as well. If he got a job it would take a lot of time to accumulate money, and the more time he spent in England the more time he would become entangled in its politics and the fight between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Also, doing an honest day's work was something that had never come naturally to Harry.

So. Large, stagnant piles of money floating around the British wizarding scene… Money that he could charm or steal away from its owners…. Who had lots of money and were conceited or foolish enough to be parted with it?

The answer came to him almost instantly. Purebloods.

He had to be careful, though. He couldn't steal from a family that was in too deep with Voldemort for fear of attracting his attention. It was also best to avoid stealing from the more powerful or well-known Pureblood families because they would have trickier defenses around their properties. In addition, they probably had the resources to try and track down any thieves that _were_ successful.

As much as possible, Harry tried not to make enemies of important people (obviously this didn't work out very well in his old world, what with the prophecy and Voldemort and all). It just made life that much more stressful.

To find the perfect candidate to be the financer of his new life, so to speak, Harry needed to be up to speed on this new world. Fresh information—he had already learned the basics from scouring several bookstores.

What he needed was a restaurant or store with a fair amount of human traffic, preferably a little shady, that was a hotspot of gossip.

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He found an ideal cesspool of human existence near the edge of London. It was a wizarding pub called The Tipsy Dragon, and it was the kind of place where he could sit at the bar and absorb conversations around him without looking suspicious.

It was here that he learned that Voldemort hadn't gone for a full military coup yet, and instead was still working from the shadows, building up his power base. Raids were becoming more frequent, however. Disappearances were common, too, and the issue of muggleborns was becoming more and more of a divisive topic.

The usual suspects appeared to be powering the Voldemort campaign: the Malfoys (who were clearly corrupt, but people liked to pretend otherwise), Bellatrix Lestrange (still as crazy as ever), the Notts, the Crabbes, the Goyles, Macnair, the Carrows, Rookwood, Dolohov, Yaxley, Runcorn, and a few others he recognized. He was surprised to learn that both Barty Crouch Sr. and Barty Crouch Jr. held positions at the Ministry of Magic. Rumors of sketchy legislation whose creation was assisted by Crouch Jr. left Harry in no doubt that the junior Crouch was a Death Eater. This was not as shocking, as in his old world Crouch Jr. had been revealed to be Death Eater in Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts after he had murdered Crouch Sr., a prominent government official.

On the other side of the conflict, Dumbledore, as expected, was leading the opposition. The Order of the Phoenix was the subject of much of the gossip, and if the rumors were anything to go by, they too were becoming more active. Sirius Black was still alive in this world—Harry felt a twinge of happiness mixed with guilt at this news—and so was Remus Lupin. Diggle, Jones, Shacklebolt, and Tonks all emerged as likely Order members, as well as his own parents, of course.

Harry used this information to determine who to avoid, and then slowly began poking around about lesser Pureblood families.

After a couple of weeks, he had the perfect target.

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During this time, in a dilapidated apartment in wizarding London, a small group of witches and wizards assembled for a meeting. Black seemed to be the unspoken dress code. An outside observer who stumbled upon the scene might have guessed that hierarchy in this group was determined by the poorness of one's hair hygiene.

If this theory was applied, then the wizard who spoke next was the clear leader of the assemblage. The greasiness of his long black hair catapulted him miles ahead of the competition. "This meeting has been convened at the request of the Dark Lord," he said. "We are all… information gatherers of a certain, ah, level, and the Lord has asked that we compare notes to gain a full understanding of the situation."

"Don't think you can get all high and mighty on us, Snape. Takin' charge of the meeting like this…. Just because you're chummy with the Order doesn't make you any more special," cut in a man with a bulbous nose and large black earring.

Snape sneered in a way that indicated he rarely got 'chummy' with anybody and then said silkily, "It might not make me any more special, Rosier, but it does give me the Dark Lord's favor. Something that you currently _lack_."

Rosier scowled but said nothing.

Snape smiled viciously. "As I was saying… Any reports on significant events are to be presented, and I will relay back to the Dark Lord."

There was a shuffling and an adjusting of robes throughout the group, and then a swarthy witch finally stepped forward. "I guess I'll go first. I've been keeping tabs on various magical creatures that might be persuaded to join the Dark Lord's cause… Giants, centaurs, werewolves, to name some."

"I'll bet you fit right in," muttered a wizard.

"Not as well as you would," she replied coolly. "You know, I could ask Greyback to get you a spot in his pack if you want one that badly." There was silence. "Thought not. Anyways, it appears that the centaurs are determined to stay neutral, although the centaur population is so low in Britain that this is hardly a huge loss to our Lord. The goblins' allegiance follows money, and the Dark Lord has a plenty of that. However, while the goblins may favor one side over another I wouldn't bet too much on them openly picking sides. They're too clever to be caught in a conflict between wizards.

"The werewolves are under the firm control of Fenrir Greyback, who is in turn under the thumb of the Dark Lord. They should be steady allies. As for other groups, I have an agent up in the mountains of Northern Europe investigating the giant situation. The dementors continue to guard Azkaban, but one of my informants at the Ministry says they're becoming… restless."

The witch turned to Snape. "That's all I have, at the moment."

Snape inclined his head. "I will let the Lord know of your diligence." He looked around. "Any others? Come now, you wouldn't want the Dark Lord to think he has _lazy_ spies, would you?"

This seemed to spur more of a response. A man less shabbily dressed than his companions began speaking loudly over the voices of others. "I've been looking into the prominent families of wizarding society. Most of the oldest Pureblood families, with the exceptions of a few such as Potter, Longbottom, and Bones, are already staunch supporters of the Dark Lord, and monitoring them would be pointless. However, a few older families are still clinging to neutrality. Bringing them over to our side could bring in vital sources of revenue. I suggest sending… envoys to help persuade them."

"Greyback might be useful in this capacity," said the witch, smiling nastily.

The wizard nodded. "Perhaps. A few less powerful families should also be considered for this, ah, persuasion. There are plenty of families whose ancestries don't stretch as far back but are still rich and influential in their own right."

"The Order has also been looking for wealthy families to recruit—or at least nab before they can be drawn over to the Lord," ruminated Snape. "Dumbledore has mentioned offering protection to these lesser families in exchange for them not conceding to Voldemort's demands. Actually, Dumbledore was talking of sending messengers to the Belmett, Casdale, and Greengrass families in the near future."

"It is imperative, then, that the Dark Lord intercepts these Order members before the support of these lesser families is lost forever. Starting with these three is a good place to start—the more families are on the Lord's side, the less other families will resist," said the wizard firmly.

Snape stared thoughtfully at the man from behind his hooked nose. "I concur. Dumbledore was sending an emissary to the Casdale family next week—I believe Tuesday. I will recommend to the Lord that he set up an ambush."

The wizard shrugged and smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "I know the Lord values blood purity above all else, as do I and I'm sure all of you. But money is money, and it can very easily throw the war in our favor."

Snape acknowledged this and then turned to look at the others, signaling that he wanted to move on to the next topic of discussion.

"I'm checkin' out the scene in wizarding London. Mos'ly Knockturn Alley and areas with more, eh, enterprising entrepreneurs, if ya catch my drift," began a lean man hurriedly. "Mos'ly jus' tensions rising, more fights and the like, and the market's been flooded with more so-called 'protective charms' than an overflowin' toilet. Cheap gimmicks to sell ta the common witch o' wizard who fear the times a'comin."

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Not that much ta tell, to be honest, 'cept one interesting thing. Hector down in Knockturn Alley was sold an el'mental sphere."

This caused quite a stir. "Was it sold by a defecting Death Eater?" asked Snape, brow furrowing.

"Nope," said the skinny wizard. "Wasn't a Death Eater a'tall, an' Hector didn't recognize him. Hector reckons 'e didn't even know what it was." He shook his head. "Crazy, huh? How're you never hearing 'bout the spheres, though?"

Elemental spheres were alchemical globes designed and manufactured exclusively by the Dark Lord. They required a simple charm to break, and once broken they had incredible destructive power. One globe could wipe out a whole street, or more, and Voldemort had been terrorizing the wizarding populace by detonating them in crowded areas. Every sphere attack made the front page of the Daily Prophet for days, and the increasing number of these attacks had regular witches and wizards afraid to venture outside of their homes. So far, the Ministry had been unable to lay their hands on a sphere and the secret behind their power remained mysterious.

A second witch, rounder but if possible meaner-looking, said, "You know, Dolohov's mission was supposed to have been detonating a sphere in Diagon Alley, but he was apprehended by Aurors. Well, collected by the Aurors. He was already unconscious by the time they got there. My contacts at the Ministry said they never found a sphere on him. Is it possible Dolohov sold it to someone before he was caught?"

"Not possible," said Snape. "The reason Dolohov was caught was _because_ he tried to detonate it but was unable to find it when the time came."

"Hmm," said the witch. "Then it was taken from him. Stolen, most likely. The person who stole it is probably the person who sold it to Hector."

The lean wizard looked doubtful. "Stealing an el'mental sphere is stupid 'nough, but sellin' it? But I s'pose," he continued, "if tha guy didn't know what it was, 'ed have no reason _not_ ta sell it. Didn't know how traceable these things are."

"A vigilante?" proposed Snape. "But no, if he stole it just to prevent the explosion he wouldn't have sold it. In any case, this is worth looking into. The person was clearly powerful enough to take down Dolohov without much effort, and the disregard for the sphere is curious. The thief must have been in Diagon Alley around the same time as Dolohov. Poke around, Ghast," he said, indicating the lean wizard, "and see if you can find someone who matches the description of the man who sold Hector the sphere."

"Right," said Ghast. "I'll see what'a can do. Hector said the seller was tall, long black 'air, glasses, an' with a strange scar on 'is forehead."

Ghast finished his report and Snape motioned for the next informant to begin.

"I have a network of spies in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and they have some very interesting things to say about Barty Crouch Sr…."

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Harry drifted about for those couple weeks, mostly staying at the Tipsy Dragon and dispensing sickles and galleons judiciously when he thought it might loosen tongues. His fifty galleons was more than enough to cover this, as well as pay for food and rent.

He saw a few familiar faces at the Dragon, including Stan Shunpike and Terry Boot. Mundungus Fletcher was a regular, and Harry slowly ingratiated himself with Dung. They had been business partners on more than one occasion in his old world.

"Heya, Johhny," said Dung as Harry entered the Dragon one evening. "How about a drink?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna pay?"

"Sure," said Dung. "I recently came into some money. Free drinks on me tonight for everyone to celebrate."

"And when you say 'came into', you mean stole, don't you?" said Harry.

"That's not a very nice way to put it, but if you want to be particular about these things…"

After a while, Harry said, "So… Let's say I have a rich, Pureblood uncle. And he dies suddenly and leaves everything to me. Not money so much, but family heirlooms, jewelry, old magical relics, that sort of thing—you know, the stuff Purebloods love to have scattered about the house. And let's say I want to sell this stuff. Is the market good for it?"

"Sure," said Dung. "Market's always good for that sort of thing. 'Specially gold pieces and powerful magical charms. Rare antique books will fetch a surprisingly good price too. You uh… Lookin' for a connection to sell to?"

Harry shrugged. "Might be. Keep your eyes open for people interested in these types of things, will you?"

"Sure," said Dung.

"I'll cut you in on the profit if you find a buyer I like," said Harry, and he meant it. It was good to have a couple stable connections business-wise, and forming a good partnership with Dung could be very profitable.

"I'll toast to that," said Dung, and downed his glass of firewiskey.

"Want to play cards?" Harry offered innocently.

"Ha! No way. Playing with you one time was once too many." He waved the bartender over. "How about the Chudley Cannons, though? Another miserable season…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Tipsy Dragon was his main source of information, but he also ventured into Knockturn Alley a few more times as well as the surrounding area of wizarding London. There was only one incident that occurred during this time, and it happened in a sketchy backstreet of Knockturn Alley.

Two thugs had seen Harry turn into the street, and thinking he was an easy target because of his thinness and unassuming air, decided to relieve him of his money.

It wasn't much of a fight—before the first thug had even taken out his wand, Harry was a blur of motion, stunning the first man and blasting the second one into a wall.

_I'm a very hard man to sneak up on, _thought Harry. _Being chased by murderous lunatics for years will do that to you. _

On the two thugs he found a couple of small sacks full of galleons and sickles, and leaving the men unconscious in the alley, decided it was a very good day.

He had some more money and he had decided on his target. Sure, it would take some time to check out the house and its defenses, but everything was moving along nicely.

The Casdale family was a self-proclaimed neutral family, not too powerful or large, but plenty rich. They were perfect.


End file.
